“I think we have done them at last,” said the captain; “what do you think, leftenant?” giving me a hearty but very friendly slap on the back.  “Come, what say you; shall we take a cool bottle of London particular after the fatigues of the day?”

“Wait a little,” said I, “wait a little.”

“What are you looking at there to windward?” said the captain, who perceived that my eye was fixed on a particular point.

Before I had time to answer, Thompson came up to me and said, “there is the ship, Sir,” pointing to the very spot on which I was gazing.  The captain heard this; and, as fear is ever quick-sighted, he instantly caught the object.

“Running is of no use now,” said he; “we have tried her off the wind, our best going; she beats us at that; and on a wind, I don’t think so much of her; but still, with this smooth water and fine breeze, she ought to move better.  Solomon, there is something wrong, give a look all round.”

Solomon went forward on the starboard side, but saw nothing.  As he looked over the gangway and bow, coming round on the lee side of the forecastle, he saw some canvas hanging on one of the night-heads—­“What have we here?” said he.  No one answered.  He looked over the fore chains, and found the whole lower studding-sail towing in the water.

“No wonder she don’t move,” said the mate; “here is enough to stop the Constitution herself.  Who took in this here lower studding-sail?—­But, never mind, we’ll settle that to-morrow.  Come over here, you forecastle men.”

Some of the Americans came over to him, but not with very great alacrity.  The sail could not be pulled in, as the vessel had too much way; and while they were ineffectually employed about it, the flash of a gun was seen to windward; and as the report reached our ears, the shot whistled over our heads, and darted like lightning through the boom mainsail.

“Hurra for old England,” said Thompson; “the fellow that fired that shot shall drink my allowance of grog to-morrow.”

“Hold your tongue, you d——­d English rascal,” said the second mate, “or I’ll stop your grog for ever.”

“I don’t think you will,” said the North Briton, “and if you take a friend’s advice, you won’t try.”  Thompson was standing on the little round-house or poop; the indignant mate jumped up, and collared him.  Thompson disengaged him in the twinkling of an eye, and with one blow of his right hand in the pit of the man’s stomach, sent him reeling over to leeward.  He fell—­caught at the boom-sheet—­missed it, and tumbled into the sea, from whence he rose no more.

All was now confusion.  “A man overboard!”—­another shot from the frigate—­another and another in quick succession.  The fate of the man was forgotten in the general panic.  One shot cut the aftermost main-shroud; another went through the boat on the booms.  The frigate was evidently very near us.  The men all rushed down to seize their bags and chests; the captain took me by the hand, and said “Sir, I surrender myself to you, and give you leave now to act as you think proper.”